Sunday, February 13, 2005

A Note on Pregnancy

I have found that pregnancy is really one of the most diabolical institutions known to mankind. My wife and I found that we were pregnant about seven months ago and my life has really taken a journey into what can only be described as the twilight zone. My wife says her life has descended into a much hotter location but, as for me, I’m sticking to the twilight zone. Much to my chagrin, and most definitely to my wife’s chagrin, pregnancy at our house includes nausea, vomiting, belching, and overall ickiness. This ickiness tends to cause much discussion about appropriate foods that might be consumed, when they might be consumed, and how and when they should be cooked. Ultimately the situation for the husband is precarious.
Now it might be pointed out that the husband is not allowed to complain about the pregnancy because he, in fact, caused it and he, in fact, is not the one whose body is housing the kid for the next nine months. I, however, disagree. I can and will complain and air my woes for the entire world to hear. I am tortured because I can’t complain to my significant other because it’s not my head in the toilet. I am tortured because I can’t eat normal foods in my own house without being accused of trying to kill my wife. I am tortured because I am required to feel sympathy and empathy at all times regardless of the inconvenience I am feeling.
I can hear women all over the world shaking their heads in disbelief and, yes, disgust. “What a wimp” or “How self-absorbed can he be?” are surely the words being said at this moment, but I don’t care. Loving, supportive, and involved husbands everywhere are a tortured lot. They deserve sympathy and understanding, but they must accept that the cross they must bear involves numerous trips to convenience stores at odd hours and the privilege of holding their wife’s hair at the porcelain throne. We aren’t allowed to refuse to take out the garbage when the Dodgers are batting in the bottom of the eighth inning. We can’t simply throw a couple of breakfast burritos in the microwave for brunch without being reported to every known woman’s organization. No, we aren’t allowed a life as long as our wife has none. If only we had a support group.
I’ve got to go now. The toilet is a-flushin’, and the Hot Pockets are just about out of the microwave.


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